


an hour, a day, a year

by rarelypoetic



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Deviates From Canon, M/M, alternative to the sword-fighting scene, but only a little ;-), gay pirate feelings, set during 4x09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22995919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rarelypoetic/pseuds/rarelypoetic
Summary: because I am completely, 100% fine about the fact that Silver used the same phrase "an hour, a day, a year" with both Madi and Flint when expressing that he would wait for however long it took for them to reconcile with him.set during 4x09 just before Flint and Silver's iconic sword fight. like... what if they fought with their lips instead? spoilers for the whole series, obvs.
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	an hour, a day, a year

Flint shot Dooley in the heart without blinking. 

Afterward, Silver took a moment to appreciate that he could still feel something akin to surprise where Flint was concerned. This man would kill a loyal crewmember - the only one he had left - to protect him. What does that say about Flint? 

Worse, what does it say about Silver that he would do the same? That he would threaten the life of the only man he can trust with this plan because he dared suggest they should take Flint out of the picture? A reasonable suggestion, at worst. 

Because Silver had known what this betrayal would do Flint, had known that the grief rooted in Flint’s core was incapable of yielding. And yet, here they were, Dooley’s corpse on the ground, Hands unconscious, - both Flin’t doing - swords drawn. 

What do you say to the man you love when your blade is at his throat? Silver worked through several options: _I’m sorry._ or _It didn’t have to be this way. I never wanted to end things like this. Not with you._ or even _You big, dumb bastard! I gave you new life. I gave you your_ old _life back. I’ve done everything--absolutely everything for you. And now I have nothing left to give._

But it was not the right time, nor the right place, and too much had transpired between them in the last twenty-four hours alone to sooth it over now with a desperate plea. He will try anyway, of course. Despite his shortcomings, Silver had always _tried_.

As usual, Flint didn't seem to hear him. There was a look in his eyes that Silver had become well acquainted with since Miranda’s death. The look existed before then, too, but it was harder to pin down--like a moth fluttering around a flickering light. Now it was there even in moments where Flint seemed as content as he could be; on his best days, it coexisted with the ghost of a smile. 

There were no words left in any verbal language that would change Flint’s mind. There was only a language in which Silver was not fluent--a language he had seen Max wield fluently, but one that has remained elusive and foreign to Silver since before he cared to remember. 

He started with the beginning of a question: he drew the tip of his sword down to the dip of Flint’s collarbone, then took a step back. Flint answered with apprehension, confusion: the straight line of his shoulders shifting, tense with anticipation. His left eyebrow twitched. 

Then the rest of the question: Silver swung his sword down in a gentle arc and left it idling by his side, still unsheathed but pointing downwards, towards the Earth. 

Flint remained still for a long moment. Then he blinked and, mechanically, began to lower his own sword in stilted increments. He was asking a question of his own now, head tilted and shoulders hunched with unease. 

Silver looked him directly in the eye and staked the ground with his sword, taking his hand off the hilt. Flint was still holding his own weapon like a lifeline, so Silver reached out, palm up. An offer. 

Flint turned the blade on himself and offered him the hilt. Silver took it carefully, staked it beside his own. 

Now there were no barriers between them, just a language that both of them were struggling to speak. But the intent was there now: the desire to communicate. 

Silver’s eyes traced the line of Flint’s throat as he swallowed. They were already close from before, when Flint handed over the sword. It was no effort at all to shuffle an inch closer, to invade the careful bubble of space, apart from others, that Flint existed in at all times. 

Flint stopped breathing. Up close, his tourmaline eyes were dilated from anger or apprehension or some confused mixture of the two. But not fear. Never fear.  
The time for questions had passed. It was time to tell Flint the truth--the full truth. 

Silver placed his hand in the juncture between Flint’s shoulder and neck, at a spot where he had watched the sun make perspiration bead on slowly reddening skin. There were freckles there, too, though Silver had only ever caught glimpses of them. When weather permitted it - and sometimes even when it did not - Flint wore his coat like a piece of armor, shielding the fragile skin of a man whose every action suggested that fragility was to him a foreign concept. 

Silver had, on occasion, wondered what that small stretch of skin would feel like--if it would be soft, like it looked, or roughened from many years at sea. He learned now that it was a pleasant mix of the two: soft in places, rougher where scars or sunburn had marred its texture. Most of all, it was warm and damp with sweat, and Silver had the sudden and inexplicable urge to replace his hand with his mouth right there where Flint’s neck curved into his shoulder. 

Suddenly he recalled, almost deliriously, a night not too long ago spent in Madi’s bed. With his eyes closed, his fingers had been trailing across her smooth, warm skin, trying to memorize the shape of her by touch alone. He could feel her eyes on him. In a way that was unlike her, she carefully said Flint’s name. 

His hands on her stopped moving. “What about him?” 

“I saw you two earlier. Speaking alone. No one else would have noticed,” she paused, “but I know you, John. I know that look you had on your face.” 

There was no use in playing dumb; Madi really _did_ know him in a way that no one else did, and she was the smartest person he knew. She had waited to bring it up until that moment precisely because she knew that Silver had to be just the right amount of vulnerable to hear it. 

Silver opened his eyes. “And what look was it?” 

“It is the way you look at me.” Madi was smiling faintly. “Weeks ago my mother told me that you watched me like I was the sun. Not the moon, who is easy to look at, but the sun--too bright, almost blinding to glance at for even a moment. But beautiful all the same. And completely necessary to one’s existence.” 

Silver was struck mute. He could only stare at Madi until she continued, “There are two suns in your life. And you need both of them.” 

“Madi--” John began, but Madi shook her head and he fell silent. 

“We are vital to you, Flint and I. I accept that. What ever way you love him has no effect on the way you love me.”

“I’ve never...” John floundered for a moment. “We’ve never...” 

“I know,” Madi said with some hint of levity. “That much is obvious.”

John swallowed. Madi smiled at him gently. “Nothing has to change. But promise me, John. Promise me that you won’t deny yourself something you need because of me.” 

“I promise,” John rasped. 

She kissed him, then. On the neck. Just where Silver’s own hand was now resting on Flint’s neck. He had promised Madi without ever truly believing he would have occasion to uphold that promise. But now Flint was standing before him, and Silver could think of no other name for the gnawing ache in his gut than _need_.

Flint was watching him with unshakable focus, though Silver’s own gaze had slipped down to below Flint’s chin, where he was tracing the progress of a lone bead of sweat that had dewed beneath his lower lip and was now making its way down his bare throat. Unconsciously, Silver shifted his hand and caught the droplet with his thumb right as it passed over Flint’s adam’s apple. 

Flint swallowed against his fingertip and Silver scented the air like a dog and sensed that, if he idled for a moment more, Flint would break away from him in an explosive rage and he would never have the privilege of being this close again. 

Silver was no stranger to the ragings of men, and so he acted on instinct to quell the vicious tide before it could rise: pushing forward on his heel, one hand still at Flint’s throat, he put his lips to the bolt of Flint’s jaw and pressed there, once, just gently. 

The scent of blood dissipated promptly, replaced by what Silver could only describe as the feeling of static in the air. 

Once, as a boy, Silver had been standing outside in a storm on the edge of a cliffside, watching the sea churn below. It was the only time he could remember feeling invincible, though someone had clearly seen fit to put him in his place, for not minutes into his reverie a lightning bolt arced out from the sky and struck the spot directly behind him, close enough that all of the hair on his body stood at attention. That single brush with electricity had taught him a valuable lesson about the dangers of a storm. 

Now it felt like he was forgetting that lesson. 

Flint moved like a wave set on engulfing him, bringing two hands to Silver’s waist and drawing him in. His pull was inexorable, and Silver did not try to deny him. He leaned into Flint’s orbit and let gravity do the rest of the work until he found that the space between them had dwindled to nothing. 

They were doing nothing less innocent than holding each other close, and yet Silver couldn’t hear his own thoughts over the sound of his heart hammering against his ribs. This was uncharted territory, and he was a terrible navigator. 

Somewhere in between being disoriented and overwhelmed, he had missed the fact that Flint’s face was pressed against his, that they were cheek against unshaven cheek. Silver shuddered involuntarily and drew away so that he could _breathe_ in the complete and sudden absence of all of the air on the entire damn island. 

He immediately regretted it. A veil passed over Flint’s face like the sun being eclipsed by a dark cloud. Silver’s fingers twitched where they had fallen limp at his sides. The static in the air had made its way into his head now, and it blacked out everything but the petrifying fear that he was about to lose the only man he still called a friend. 

Silver kissed him. He did so clumsily, and with force, and Flint - unshakable, unmovable, obstinate Flint - stumbled back a step. Silver steadied him with a hand at his back and another on his waist and the contact seemed to ground them both, for Flint was pressing back against him in an instant with a ferocity he usually only put into fighting. 

Perhaps this was, in some ways, a continuation of their earlier fight. It had been translated into a different language, but the meaning was the same: they were hurt, both of them, by the actions of the other. And they didn’t _want_ to hurt each other anymore, but they didn’t know how to stop. It felt like it was too late, like too many horrible things had passed between them. There were some things Silver knew you couldn’t apologize for. 

There would be no making it up to each other in words. There would be no verbal reconciliation ending in a handshake and a pat on the back. The only way out of this mess was to drown, to die, to become something new. 

And Silver _was_ drowning. God, how he hated swimming. How he hated the fucking ocean. How was it that he had willingly plunged into its depths with stones tied around his ankles? 

They were against a tree somehow. Silver only noticed the change when bark scraped unpleasantly at his back, where his shirt had ridden up. Flint’s hands were in his hair, curls tangled around his fingers, breathing against him like he’d just scaled a mountain. Silver’s entire mouth felt like a bruise. Their bodies couldn’t get any closer, but for a while they tried.

Flint pulled away first, eyes frantically tracing the contours of Silver’s face. This close, Silver could see the flakes of dried blood on his forehead. Their eyes met. Flint had always had a piercing gaze--he was known for it--but this was different. He looked at Silver like he was seeing another human being for the first time.

Silver was utterly pinned by the look. It seemed impossible to imagine that just minutes ago he had been about to duel this man, that he had unsheathed his sword fully aware that it might end up dripping with Flint’s blood.

The realization of where they were and what they had been about to do brought with it a tumble of other thoughts, namely about Madi. And Thomas. 

Fuck. _Thomas._

“James,” Silver said, then froze momentarily, caught off guard by his own use of Flint’s first name. Flint’s eyebrows furrowed for only a split second. Silver swallowed and continued, “There’s something you need to know.” 

Before either of them could speak, they heard the not-so-distant rumble of an explosion--a sound Silver was unfortunately familiar with. They stared at each other for a moment, then mutually separated and began righting themselves. 

Flint handed him the crutch that had fallen to the wayside while they’d been entangled. Their fingers brushed. Silver pointedly ignored the impulse to pull Flint back to him, to kiss him again just once before they went barreling into whatever new disaster awaited them down on the beach. 

But Hands was already stirring from his spot on the ground where Flint had cleanly knocked him out, and now faint yelling and gunshots echoed throughout the forest. Black smoke was beginning to rise over the tops of the trees. 

They simultaneously sheathed their abandoned swords. Flint tilted his chin up at him. Silver returned the gesture. It was a silent agreement that whatever had happened between them would be left here, in this small clearing. Like the many other things he had sacrificed since he arrived at Nassau all those years ago, Silver turned away and forced himself to move on. 

And it would have worked. Only there was just one thing Silver had not ever successfully left behind: the people he loved. 

He followed Flint down to the beach.

**Author's Note:**

> remember when Silver almost cried just describing their fight and Flint's reunion with Thomas to Madi? remember how fucking emotional he got just from telling Madi that Flint could live peacefully now? the look in his eyes when he said "I didn't kill him." 
> 
> yyeeeeeeeeeaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh.  
> I watched Black Sails like a year ago and I'm STILL fragile. I've been wanting to write something for this show for so long, and this thing was just sitting almost finished in my drafts. So here it is.
> 
> Feel free to have an emotional crisis down in the comments below. Misery loves company, y'know?
> 
> oh, and follow me on tumblr if u want @mostlygayy


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